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English Poets. 



(Milton, Drydek, Gray, Goldsmith, Cowper, Southey, 
Scott, Byron, Tennyson, and Others.) 



With Illustrations^ 



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THE COTTAGE LIBRARY. 



^ Infinite Riches in Little Room.''* 



Under the general title of "The Cottage Library,'' the subscribers have 
comuienced the issue of a series of attractive hand-volumes, containing choice 
selections from the best poets, and standard productions of the jcrroat authors, 
issued in elegant style, but at a low price, and designed for popular circulation. 
Each volume is handsomely illustrated, and printed on fine pajjcr. 
Price 80 Cents Each. 

Of the early volumes of the series, the publishers are enabled to announce: 

I. 

HOME BALLADS BY OUK HOME POETS. 
With Illustrations by F. O. C. Dakley. 

II. 

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT, AND OTHER POEMS. 
By Thomas Hood. With Illustrations. 

IIT. 

^' UNDER GREEN LEAVES.*' 
A book of Rural Poems, collected from the best Poets, by Kichard Henry 
Stoddard. 

With Illustrations by Birket Foster. 

IV. 

FAVORITE ENGLISH POEMS. 
(By Milton, Dryden, Gray, Goldsmith, Byron, Southey, Campbell, Scott. 
Tennyson, and Others.) 

Illustrated. 

To be followrd by '' Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress," " Vicar of Wakefield," 
*' Childe Harold," *' Lady of the Lake," and other Volumes. 

Either of the Volumes mailed, post free, on receipt of price. 

BUNCE & HUNTINGTON, Publishers, 

*"ew York. 




IIenpe, Lo.vtiied Melancholy! 

L'ALLECiRO. p. 5. 



THE COTTAGE LIBRARY. 



Favorite 



English Poems 



Milton, Dryden, Gray, Goldsmith, Southey, Cowper, V/ords 
WORTH, Byron, Scott, Tennyson, and others. 



NEW YORK: 

BUNCE & HUNTINGTON, PUBLISHERS. 

1865. 






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CONTENTS. 



L' Allegro .... 

Il Penseeoso .... 

Alexandeb's Feast . 

The Passions .... 

Elegy written in a Country Church-Yard, 

On Keceipt of my Mother's Picture 

The Deserted Village 

Hohenlinden 

Burial of Sir John Moore 

Ode; Intimations of Immortality 

The Battle of Blenheim . 

Lochinvar .... 

The Prisoner of Chillon . 

The Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, 

Alfred Tennyson, 

How THEY Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 

Robert Browning. 
IvRY .... Thomas Bahington Macaulay. 

Dora ...... Alfred Tennyson, 

The Brides of Enderby ; or, the High Tide, Jean Ingelow. 



PAGB 

John Milton. 5 

John Milton. 10 

John Dry den. 16 

William Collins. 21 

Thomas Gray. 25 

William Gowper. 30 

Oliver Goldsmith. 34 

Thomas Campbell, 49 

Charles Wolfe. 50 

William Wordsworth. 51 

Robert Soiithey. 59 

Sir Walter Scott 61 

Lord Byron. 63 

76 

78 
81 
85 
90 



FAVOEITE POEMS. 



L^ALLEGRO. 

Hence, loathed Melancholy, 
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born ! 
In Stygian cave forlorn, 
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, 

Find out some uncouth cell. 
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings. 
And the night-raven sings ; 

There, under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks, 
As ragged as thy locks. 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 

But come, thou goddess fair and free,. 
In heav'n y-cleped Euphrosyne, 
And, by men, heart-easing Mirth ! 
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth 
With two sister Graces more. 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; 
Or whether (as some sages sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the Spring, 
Zephyr, with Aurora playing — 
As he met her once a-Maying — 



FAVORITE POEMS. 

There, on beds of violets blue, 
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, 
Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair. 



Haste thee, nympn, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful Jollity — 
Quips and cranks and wanton wiles. 
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles. 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
And love to live in dimple sleek — 
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides. 
And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come ! and trip it, as you go, 
On the light fantastic toe ; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; 
And if I give thee honor due. 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew. 
To live with her, and live with thee, 
In unreproved pleasures free — 
To hear the lark begin his flight. 
And singing startle the dull Night 
From his watch-to w'r in the skies. 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow. 
And at my window bid good morrow, 
Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine ; 
While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 



l'allegro. 

And to the stack, or the barn door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before ; 
Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, 
From the side of some hoar hill 
Through the high wood echoing shrill ; 
Sometimes walking, not unseen. 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate. 
Where the great Sun begins his state, 
Robed in flames, and amber light. 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; 
While the ploughman near at hand 
Whistles o'er the furrowed land, 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe. 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 



Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures. 
Whilst the landscape round it measures 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray — 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest — 
Meadows trim with daisies pied. 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees. 
Where perhaps some beauty lies, 
The cynosure of neighboring eyes. 



FAVORITE POEMS. 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 

From betwixt two aged oaks, 

Where Cory don and Thyrsis met. 

Are at their savory dinner set 

Of herbs, and other country messes. 

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; 

And then in haste her bower she leaves, 

With The sty lis to bind the sheaves ; 

Or, if the earlier season lead. 

To the tanned haycock in the mead. 



Sometimes with secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite. 
When the merry bells ring round, 
And the jocund rebecs sound 
To many a youth, and many a maid. 
Dancing in the checkered shade ; 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sunshine holiday, 
Till the live-long daylight fail ; 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale 
With stories told of many a feat : 
How fairy Mab the junkets eat — 
She was pinched and pulled, she said, 
And he by friar's lantern led ; 
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set. 
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. 
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 
That ten day-laborers could not end ; 
Then lies him down the lubber fiend, 



l'allegro. 

And stretched out all the chimney's length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
And, crop-full, out of doors he flings 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. 
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. 

Towered cities please us then, 
And the busy hum of men. 
Where throngs of knights and barons bold 
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold — 
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 
Eain influence, and judge the prize 
Of wit or arms, while both contend 
To win her grace whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In saflron robe, with taper clear. 
And pomp and feast and revelry. 
With mask, and antique pageantry — 
Such sights as youthful poets dream 
On summer eves by haunted stream ; 
Then to the well-trod stage anon. 
If Jonson's learned sock be on. 
Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child, 
Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever, against eating cares, 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs. 
Married to immortal verse. 
Such as the melting soul may pierce, 
In notes with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 



10 FAVORITE POEMS. 

With wanton heed and giddy cunning 

The melting voice through mazes running, 

Untwisting all the chains that tie 

The hidden soul of harmony — 

That Orpheus' self may heave his head 

From golden slumber on a bed 

Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 

Such strains as would have won the ear 

Of Pluto, to have quite set free 

His half regained Eurydice. 

These delights if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 



John Milton. 



IL PENSEHOSO. 

Hence, vain deluding joys, 

The brood of folly without father bred ! 

How little you bestead. 
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 

Dwell in some idle brain. 
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, 
As thick and numberless 
As the gay motes that people the sunbeams - 
Or likest hovering dreams. 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 

But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy ! 
Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight, 



IL PEJSrSEEOSO. 11 

And therefore to our weaker view 

O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue — 

Black, but such as in esteem 

Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. 

Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 

To set her beauty's praise above 

The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended. 

Yet thou art higher far descended ; 

Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore, 

To solitary Saturn bore — 

His daughter she (in Saturn's reign 

Such mixture was not held a stain). 

Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 

He met her, and in secret shades 

Of woody Ida's inmost grove. 

While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain 
Flowing with majestic train. 
And sable stole of cypress lawn 
Over thy decent shoulders drawn ! 
Come ! but keep thy wonted state. 
With even step and musing gait, 
And looks commercing with the skies, 
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes ; 
There, held in holy passion still, 
Forget thyself to marble, till 
With a sad, leaden, downward cast 
Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; 
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet — 
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. 



12 FAVOKITE POEMS. 

And hears the Muses in a ring 
Aye round about Jove's altar sing; 
And add to these retired Leisure, 
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure ; 
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring 
Him that yon soars on golden wing, 
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne — 
The cherub Contemplation ; 
And the mute Silence hist along, 
'Less Philomel will deign a song 
Li her sweetest, saddest plight. 
Smoothing the rugged brow of night. 
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 
Gently o'er the accustomed oak. 
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly- 
Most musical, most melancholy ! 
Thee, chantress, oft the woods among 
I woo, to hear thy even-song ; 
And, missing thee, I walk unseen 
On the dry, smooth-shaven green, 
To behold the wandering moon 
Eiding near her highest noon, 
Like one that had been led astray 
Through the heav'n's wide pathless way ; 
And oft, as if her head she bowed. 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
Oft, on a plat of rising ground, 
I hear the far-off curfew sound 
Over some wide-watered shore, 
Swinging slow with sullen roar ; 
Or if the air will not permit. 
Some still removed place will fit, 



IL PENSEROSO. 13 

Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach Hght to counterfeit a gloom — 
Far from all resort of mirth, 
Save the cricket on the hearth, 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm, 
To bless the doors from nightly harm ; 
Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear 
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds or what vast regions hold 
The immortal mind that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook ; 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or underground. 
Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In sceptred pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine. 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskined stage. 



But, 0, sad virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower ! 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek, 
And made hell grant what love did seek ! 



14 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Or call up him that left half told 
The story of Cambuscan bold — 
Of Camball, and of Algarsife — 
And who had Canace to wife, 
That owned the virtuous ring and glass — 
And of the wondrous horse of brass, 
On which the Tartar king did ride ! 
And, if aught else great bards beside 
In sage and solemn tunes have sung — 
Of tourneys and of trophies hung. 
Of forests, and enchantments drear. 
Where more is meant than meets the ear. 



Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
Till civil-suited Morn appear — 
Not tricked and flounced, as she was wont 
With the Attic boy to hunt. 
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud 
While rocking winds are piping loud. 
Or ushered with a shower still 
When the gust hath blown his fill, 
Ending on the rustling leaves, 
With minute drops from ofi* the eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves. 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
Of pine or monumental oak. 
Where the rude axe with heaved stroke 
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, 
Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. 



IL PENSEROSO. 15 

There in close covert by some brook, 
Where no profaner eye may look, 
Hide me from day's garish eye, 
While the bee with honeyed thigh, 
That at her flowery work doth sing, 
And the waters murmuring 
With such consort as they keep. 
Entice the dewy-feathered sleep ; 
And let some strange mysterious dream 
Wave at his wings, in airy stream 
Of lively portraiture displayed. 
Softly on my eyelids laid ; 
And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 
Above, about, or underneath. 
Sent by some spirit to mortals good. 
Or th' unseen genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloisters pale, * 
And love the high embowed roof. 
With antic pillars massy prooff 
And storied windows, richly dight. 
Casting a dim religious light. 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full-voiced quire below. 
In service high, and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage. 



16 FAVOEITE POEMS. 

The hairy gown and mossy cell, 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth shew, 
And every herb that sips the dew, 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 



John Milton, 



ALEXAl^DER'S FEAST; 

OE, TH(E POWEE OF MUSIO. — AN ODE IN HONOE OF ST. 

Cecilia's day. 

'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 
By Philip's warlike son : 
Aloft, in awful state, 
The godhke hero sate 

On his imperial throne ; 
His valiant peers were placed around, 
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound 
(So should desert in arms be crowned) ; 
The lovely Thais by his side 
Sate, like a blooming eastern bride. 
In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
Happy, happy, happy pair ! 

None but the brave, 
. None but the brave. 
None but the brave deseiTCs the fair. 



Alexander's feast. 17 

Timotheus, placed on high 
Amid the tuneful quire, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre ; 
The trembling notes ascend the sky, 

And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove, 
Who left his blissful seats above 
(Such is the power of mighty Love). 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 
When he to fair Olympia pressed. 
And while he sought her snowy breast, 
Then round her slender waist he curled, [world. 

And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the 
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound — 
A present deity ! they shout around ; 
A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound. 
With ravished ears 
The monarch hears. 
Assumes the god, 
Aflfects to nod. 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung — 
Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young ; 
The jolly god in triumph comes ; 
Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums ! 
Flushed with a purple grace. 
He shows his honest face ; 
Now give the hautboys breath — he comes, he comes ! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young. 
Drinking joys did first ordain ; 
2 



18 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ; 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : 

Rich the treasure, 

Sweet the pleasure ; 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; 

Fought all his battles o'er again ; [slain. 

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the 
The master saw the madness rise — 
Ilis glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; 
And, while he Heaven and Earth defied, 
Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
He chose a mournful Muse, 
Soft pity to infuse ; 
He sung Darius great and good. 

By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen — 
Fallen from his high estate, 

And weltering in his blood ; 
Deserted, at his utmost need. 
By those his former bounty fed ; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies. 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
Revolving in his altered soul 

The various turns of chance below ; 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole ; 
And tears began to flow. 

The mighty master smiled, to see 
That Love was in the next degree ; 



alexandek's feast. 19 

'Tvvas but a kindred sound to move, 

For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 

War, he sung, is toil and trouble ; 

Honor but an empty bubble — 
Never ending, still beginning — 

Fighting still, and still destroying ; 
If the world be worth thy winning, 

Think, O think it worth enjoying ! 
Lovely Thais sits beside thee — 
Take the goods the gods provide thee. 
The many rend the sky with loud applause ; 
So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care, 
And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again. 

At length, with love and wine at once oppressed. 

The v^anquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Now strike the golden lyre again — 

A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! 

Break his bands of sleep asunder. 

And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 

Hark, hark ! the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head ! 
As awaked from the dead, 

And amazed, he stares around. 
Revenge ! revenge ! Timotheus cries ; 

See the Furies arise ! 



20 FAVORITE POEMS. 

See the snakes that they rear, 
How they hiss in their hair, 
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! 
Behold a ghastly band. 
Each a torch in his hand ! 
Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
And unburied remain, 
Inglorious, on the plain ! 
Give the vengeance due 
To the valiant crew. 
Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
How they point to the Persian abodes. 
And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! 
The princes applaud with a furious joy. 
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; 
Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey. 
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. 

Thus, long ago — 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 

While organs yet were mute — 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute, 
And sounding lyre. 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
"With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 






;■i#?*^^ 




THE PASSIONS. 21 



Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
Or both divide the crown ; 

He raised a mortal to the skies — 
She drew an angel down. 



John Dry den. 



THE PASSIONS. 

AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
While yet in early Greece she sung, 
The Passions oft, to hear her shell. 
Thronged around her magic cell — 
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting — 
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting ; 
By turns they felt the glowing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; 
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, 
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. 
From the supporting myrtles round 
They snatched her instruments of sound ; 
And, as they oft' had heard apart 
Sweet lessons of her forceful art, 
Each (for Madness ruled the hour) 
Would prove his own expressive power. 

First Fear his hand, its skill to try. 
Amid the chords bewildered laid, 

And back recoiled, he knew not why. 
E'en at the sound himself had made. 



22 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Next Anger rushed ; his eyes, on fire, 
In lio'htnino's owned his secret stino;s : 

In one rude clash he struck the lyre, 

And swept with hurried hand the strings. 

With woful measures wan Despair, 

Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled — • 

A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. 

But thou, Hope, with eyes so fair — 
What was thy delightful measure ? 
Still it whispered promised pleasure. 
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! 

Still w^ould her touch the strain prolong ; 
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, 

She called on Echo still, through all the song ; 
And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; 

And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden 
hair. 

And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, 

Revenge impatie nt rose ; 
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down ; 

And, with a withering look. 

The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! 

And, ever and anon, he beat 

The doubling drum, with furious heat ; 
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, 



THE PASSIONS. 23 

Dejected Pity, at his side, 
Her soul-subduing voice applied, 
Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien, 
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting 
from his head. 
Thy numbers. Jealousy, to naught were fixed — 

Sad proof of thy distressful state ; 
Of difiering themes the veering song was mixed ; 
And now it courted Love — now, raving, called on 
Hate. 

With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
Pale Melancholy sate retired ; 
Ancl, from her wild, sequestered seat, 
In notes by distance made more sweet, 
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; 
And, dashing soft from rocks around, 
Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; 
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure 
stole ; 
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay. 
Round an holy calm difi'using, 
Love of Peace, and lonely musing, 
In hollow murmurs died away. 

But ! how altered was its sprightlier tone 

When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, 
Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, 

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung — 
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ! 

The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, 



24 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, 

Peeping from forth their alleys green ; 
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear ; 

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. 
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : 
He, with viny crown advancing, 

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; 
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol. 

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best ; 
They would have thought, who heard the strain. 

They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids. 

Amidst the festal sounding shades. 
To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings. 
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : 
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; 

And he, amidst his frolic play, 

As if he would the charming air repay. 
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings. 

O Music 1 sphere-descending maid, 
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! 
Why, goddess ! why, to us denied, 
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
You learned an all-commanding power, 
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared. 
Can well recall what then it heard ; 
Where is thy native simple heart, 
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? 
Arise, as in that elder time. 
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. 25 

Thy wonders, in that godlike age, 
Fill thy recording sister's page ; 
'Tis said — and I believe the tale — 
Thy humblest reed could more prevail, 
Had more of strength, diviner rage. 
Than all which charms this laggard age — 
E'en all at once together found — 
Cecilia's mingled world of sound. 
O bid our vain endeavors cease ; 
Kevive the just designs of Greece ! 
Return in all thy simple state — 
Confirm the tales her sons relate ! 

William Collins. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
YARD. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; 

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ; 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his dronino; flio-ht, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 



26 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldermg heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn^ 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their stmxly stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. 

Await alike th' inevitable hour. — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. 27 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the' dull cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire — 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood — 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest. 
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined — 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : 



28 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The struggling pangs of conscious trutli to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the maddino^ crowd's io-noble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect. 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh. 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews. 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. 

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate — 



ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. 29 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews aw^ay, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn : 

" There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high. 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove — 

Now drooping, woeful- wan, like one forlorn. 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

" One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came — nor yet beside the rill. 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

" The next, with dirges due in sad array. 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him 
borne : — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

There scattered oft, the earliest of the year. 

By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; 

The redbreast loves to build and warble there. 
And little footsteps lightly print the ground. 



FAVORITE POEMS. 



THE EPITAPH. 



Here rests his head upon the lap of earthy 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 

Fair Science froumed not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty^ and his soul sincere — 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gained from Heaven (^tivas all he loished) a friend. 

No farther seek his inerits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode — 

{There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God, 

Thomas Gray, 



OX THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 

OUT OF NORFOLK, THE aiFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM. 

O THAT those lips had language ! Life has passed 

With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 

Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 

The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 

Voice only fails — else how distinct they say, 

" Grieve not, my child — chase all thy fears away !" 

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 

(Blest be the art that can immortalize. 

The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 

To quench it !) here shines on me still the same. 



MY mother's pictuee. 31 

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! 

welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey — not willingly alone. 

But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
And, while that face renews my filial grief. 
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief — 
Shall steep me in Elysian re very, 
A momentary dream that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead. 
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — 
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? 
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ; 
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; 
And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
But was it such? — It was. — Where thou art gone 
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknoAvn ; 
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
The parting word shall pass my lips no more. 
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; 
What ardently I wished, I long believed, 
And, disappointed still, was still deceived — 
By expectation every day beguiled. 
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 



32 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more- 
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
And where the gardener Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way — 
Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap — 
'Tis now become a history little known. 
That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair. 
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : 
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 
That thou might' st know me safe and warmly laid ; 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home — 
The biscuit, or confectionary plum; 
The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed 
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed ; 
All this, and, more endearing still than all. 
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall — 
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 
That humor interposed too often makes ; 
All this, still legible in memory's page, 
And still to be so to my latest age. 
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
Such honors to thee as my numbers may — 
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere — 
Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here. 



MY mother's picture. 33 

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours 
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers — 
The violet, the pink, the jessamine — 
I pricked them into paper with a pin 
(And thou wast happier than myself the while — 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile) — 
Could thpse few pleasant days again appear, 
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? 
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
But no — what here we call our life, is such, 
So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou — as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed), 
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle. 
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, 
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
While airs impregnated with incense play 
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay — 
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore 
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar ;" 
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
Always from port withheld, always distressed — 
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost ; 
And day by day some current's thwarting force 
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 

3 



34 FAVOKITE POEMS. 

Yet O, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! 
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 
The son of parents passed into the skies. 
And now, farewell ! — Time, unrevoked, has run 
His wonted course ; yet what I wished is done. 
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
I seem to have lived ray childhood o'er again — 
To have renewed the joys that once were mine, 
Without the sin of violating thine ; 
And, while the wings of fancy still are free. 
And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 

William Cmvper. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, 
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid. 
And parting Summer's lingering blooms delayed ! 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease — 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ! 
How often have I loitered o'er thy gi-een, 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene I 
How often have I paused on every charm, 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 



'J'/^- r^^i" 




--^^^S^i"- 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 36 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topped the neighboring hill 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade — 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 

AVhen toil, remitting, lent its turn to play. 

And all the village train, from labor free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old surveyed ; 

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; 

The dancing pair, that simply sought renown 

By holding out, to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these. 

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ; 

These were thy charms — ^but all these charms are fled. 



Sweet-smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green ; 
Only one master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; 



86 FAVORITE POEMS. 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 

But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 

And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand. 

Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began. 
When every rood of ground maintained its man : 
For him light labor spread her wholesome store — 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered : trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 87 

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that asked but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
Tn all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes iry latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past. 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

O blest retirement ! friend to life's decline ! 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine 1 



38 FAVORITE POEMS. 

How blest is he who crowns, in shades Hke these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state. 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 



Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed, wdth careless steps and slow. 
The mingling notes came softened from below : 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind. 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail ; 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale ; 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread — 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 39 

All but one widowed, solitary thing, 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread. 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 

She only left of all the harmless train, 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 



Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled. 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
There, where a few, torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize — 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
Sate by his fire, and talked the night away — 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 



40 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the tremblinor wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double swa}'-, 
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
The service past, around the pious man. 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children followed, with endearing wile, 
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given — 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 41 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 



Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view — 
I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy w^hisper, circling round. 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; 
Yet he was kind — or, if severe in aught. 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew ; 
Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 
For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 
While words of learned length and thundering sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grevr. 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame ; the very spot. 
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 



42 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low Ues that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
Where gray-beard mirth and smihng toil retired, 
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor. 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door. 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day. 
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 



Vain, transitory splendor ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 43 

Nor the coy maid, lialf willing to be pressed, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm than all the gloss of art ; 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined ; 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade. 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay ! 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name, 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds- 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 



44 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 

Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth ; 

His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 

Around the world each needful product flies, 

For all the luxuries the world supplies ; 

While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all, 

In barren splendor, feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past — for charms are frail — 
When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed. 
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed ; 
But, verging to decline, its splendors rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land. 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If, to some common's fenceless limits strayed, 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 45 

If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 

To see profusion that he must not share ; 

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 

To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 

To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 

Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. 

Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomp display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 

The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, 

Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square — 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine eyes 

Where the poor, houseless, shivering female lies : 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest. 

Has wept at tales of innocence distressed ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 

Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled — 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ; 

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 

When, idly first, ambitious of the town. 

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn — thine the loveliest train — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 



46 FAVORITE POEMS. 

E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 
At proud men s doors they ask a little bread. 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there, from all that charmed before. 
The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray. 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 
Those pois'nous fields, with rank luxuriance crowned, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey. 
And savage men, more murderous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day 

That called them from their native walks away ; 

When the poor exiles, every pleasure past. 

Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last. 

And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 

For seats like these beyond the western main ; 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE 47 

And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 

Returned and wept, and still returned to weep ! 

The good old sire the first prepared to go 

To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 

He only wished for worlds beyond the grave : 

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 

The fond companion of his helpless years, 

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 

And left a lover's for her father's arms. 

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 

And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose ; 

And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 

And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 

Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 

In all the silent manliness of grief. 

Luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree. 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness gTOwn, 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

Even now the devastation is begun. 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 



48 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail 
That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale — 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care. 
And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
And piety, with wishes placed above, 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade — 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ! 
Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ! 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe — 
That found' st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ! 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel ! 
Thou nurse of every virtue — fare thee well I 
Farewell ! — and ! where'er thy voice be tried. 
On Torno's clifls, or Pambamarca's side — 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow. 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow — 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime; 
Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain. 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him that states, of native strength possessed, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy. 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



HOHENLINDEN. 4&^ 



HOHENLINDEK 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; 
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven. 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet those flres shall glow 
On Linden's hills of crimsoned snow, 
And bloodier yet shall be the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn ; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
4 



50 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave^ 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet ; 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Thomas Camphell. 



BUEIAL OF SIR JOHltT MOORE. 

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night. 
The sod with our bayonets turning. 

By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless cofBn enclosed his breast, 

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him ! 

Few and short w^re the prayers v/e said. 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 



ODE. 51 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed. 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — 

But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on, 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heav'y task was done. 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; 

And we knew by the distant random gun, 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, we raised not a stone — 
But we left him alone in his glory. 

Charles Wolfe, 



ODE. 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM KECOLLECTIOXS OF 
EARLY CHILDHOOD. 



There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light — 



52 FAVORITE POEMS. 

The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore : 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen, I now can see no more. 

II. 

The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the rose ; 
The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare: 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

III. 

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 

And while the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound. 

To mc alone there came a thought of grief; 

A timely utterance gav^ that thought relief. 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep — 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong. 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng ; 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity : 
And with the heart of May 



ODE. 53 

Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
Thou child of joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
shepherd boy ! 

IV. 

Ye blessed creatures ! I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 

My heart is at your festival. 

My head hath its coronal — 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 

evil day 1 if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May-raorning, 
And the children are culUng 

On every side. 
In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines wann. 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm — 

1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
— But there's a tree, of many one, 

A single field which I have looked upon — 
Both of them speak of something that is gone ; 

The pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat. 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 

V. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting ; 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 



54 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar. 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 

From God, who is our home. 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy ; 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows — 

He sees it in his joy. 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own. 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind ; 
And, even with something of a mother's mind, 

And no unworthy aim. 

The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses — 

A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 

See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, 



ODE. 55 

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upoQ him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art — 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral — 

And this hath now his heart. 

And unto this he frames his song. 

Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part — 
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 
With all the persons, down to palsied age. 
That life brings with her in her equipage ; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity ! 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage ! thou eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal dee|> 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind ! — 

Mighty prophet ! Seer blest. 

On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ! 



66 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Thou over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by ! 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 

IX. 

O joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live ; 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive 1 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not, indeed, 
For that which is most worthy to be blest — 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast- 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanishings, 
Blank miso^ivinors of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
Hio'h instincts, before which our mortal nat' lO 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised — 



ODE. 

But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day. 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing, 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 

To perish never — 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor man nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather. 
Though inland far we be. 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brouo;ht us hither — 
Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 



Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 

And let the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound ! 
We in thought wdll join your throng. 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
^'/hat though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight. 



58 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower — 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind : 

In the primal sympathy 

Which, having been, must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suff'erinor ; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mmd. 

XI. 

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 

Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret. 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are woq. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears — 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

William Wordstuorth. 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 59 

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 

It was a Summer evenino; — 

Old Kaspar's work was done, 
And he before his cottage door 

Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 

Roll something large and round, 
Which he beside the rivulet, 

In playing there, had found ; 
He came to ask what he had found. 
That was so large, and smooth, and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And, with a natural sigh — 
" 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 

" I find them in the garden, 

For there's many here about ; 
And often when I go to plough, 

The ploughshare turns them out ; 
For many thousand men," said he, 
" Were slain in that great victory." 

" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little Wilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes — 



60 FAVORITE POEMS. 

" Now tell us all about the war, 

And what they killed each other for." 

** It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
"Who put the French to rout; 

But what they killed each other for, 
I could not well make out ; 

But everybody said," quoth he, 

" That 'twas a famous victory. 

" My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head 

" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide ; 
And many a childing mother there, 

And new-born baby died ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won — 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 
And our good Prince Eugene." 

" Why, 'twas a very wicked thing I" 
Said little Wilhelmine. 



LOCHINVAK. 

"Nay — nay — my little girl !" quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

" And everybody praised the Duke, 
Who this great fight did win." 

" But what good came of it at last ?" 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

" Why, that I cannot tell," said he ; 

"But 'twas 2i famous victory.'''' 

Robert Southey. 



t)l 



LOOHINVAR. 

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west ; 
Through all the wide border his steed was the best; 
And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none ; 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone ; 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; 

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late : 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ; 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 

" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?" 



02 FAVORITE POEMS. 

" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied — 
Love swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like its tide — 
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ; 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet — the knight took it up ; 
He quaffed off the wine, and he thrw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar — 
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

plume ; 
And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by 

far 
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. 
When they reached the hall-door and the charger stood 

near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 
" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young 

Lochinvar. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 63 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they 

ran: 
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? 

Sir Walter Scott 



THE PRISONER OF OHILLON. 
I. 

My hair is gray, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 
As men's have grown from sudden fears ; 
My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose ; 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are banned and barred — forbidden fare. 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffered chains and courted death. 
That father perished at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place. 
We were seven, who now are one — 

Six in youth, and one in age. 
Finished as they had begun. 

Proud of persecution's rage ; 



64 FAVORITE POEMS. 

One in fire, and two in field, 

Their belief with blood have sealed^ 

Dying as their father died. 

For the God their foes denied ; 

Three were in a dungeon cast. 

Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



II. 

There are seven pillars, of Gothic mould. 
In Ohillon's dungeons deep and old ; 
There are seven columns, massy and gray. 
Dim with a dull imprisoned ray — 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way. 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left — 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp ; 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain ; 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away 
Till I have done wdth this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er ; 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother drooped and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 65 

III. 
They chained us each to a column stone ; 
And we were three — yet, each alone. 
We could not move a single pace ; 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight ; 
And thus together, yet apart — 
Fettered in hand, but joined in heart; 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech. 
And each turn comforter to each — 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon-stone, 

A grating sound — not full and free, 

As they of yore were wont to be ; 

It might be fancy — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

IV. 

I was the eldest of the three ; 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 

I ought to do, and did, my best — 
And each did well in his degrree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven — 

For him my soul was sorely moved ; 



66 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And truly might it be distressed 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day 

(When day was beautiful to me 

As to young eagles, being free), 

A polar day, which will not see 

A sunset till its summer's gone — 

Its sleepless summer of long light. 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 

And thus he was, as pure and bright. 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for naught but others' ills ; 
And then they flowed like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorred to view below. 

V. 

The other was as pure of mind, 
But formed to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the w^orld in war had stood, 
And perished in the foremost rank 

With joy ; but not in chains to pine. 
His spirit withered with their clank ; 

I saw it silently decline — 

And so, perchance, in sooth, did mine ! 
But yet I forced it on, to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had followed there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fettered feet the worst of ills. 



THE PRISONER OF CFILLON. 67 

VI. 

Late Leman lies by Chillon's walls. 
A thousand feet in depth below, 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 

Which round about the wave inthralls ; 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave. 
Below the surface of the lake, 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay ; 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knocked. 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high. 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rocked. 

And I have felt it shake, unshocked ; 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 



VII. 

I said my nearer brother pined ; 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coars6 and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare. 
And for the like had little care. 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat ; 



68 FAVOKITE POEMS. 

Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moistened many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men, 
Like brutes, within an iron den. 
But what were these to us or him ? 
These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the stepe mountain's side. 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head. 
Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead. 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died — and they unlocked his chain, 
And scooped for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begged them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought ; 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laughed, and laid him there, 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant — 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 69 

VIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 

Most cherished since his natal hour. 

His mother's image in fair face. 

The infant love of all his race, 

His martyred father's dearest thought, 

My latest care — for whom I sought 

To hoard my life, that his might be 

Less wretched now, and one day free — 

He, too, who yet had held untired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 

God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood ; 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swollen, convulsive motion ; 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin, delirious with its dread ; 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmixed with such — but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind. 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray— 



70 FAVORITE POEMS. 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur, not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot — 

A Uttle talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise ; 

For I w^as sunk in silence — lost 

In this last loss, of all the most. 

And then the sighs he w^ould suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness. 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

I listened, but I could not hear — 

I called, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished ; 

I called, and thought I heard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rushed to him : I found him not. 

/ only stirred in this black spot ; 

/ only lived — / only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon dew ; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink. 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe. 

I took that hand which lay so still — 

Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 

I had not strength to stir or strive, 

But felt that I was still alive — 



THE PEISONER OF CHILLOISr. 71 

A frantic feeling, when we know 
That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — ^I never knew. 
First came the loss of light and air, 

And then of darkness too. 
I had no thought, no feeling — ^none : 
Among the stones I stood a stone ; 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist. 
As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; 
It was not night — it was not day ; 
It was not even the dungeon-light, 
So hateful to my heavy sight ; 
But vacancy absorbing space, 
And fixedness without a place ; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time, 
No cbeck — no change — no good — no crime — 
But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death — 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless. 

X. 

A light broke in upon my brain — 

It was the carol of a bird ; 
It ceased, and then it came again — 

The sweetest song ear ever heard ; 



72 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And mine was tliankful till my eyes 

Ean over witli the glad surprise, 

And tliey that moment could not see 

I was the mate of misery ; 

But then, by dull degrees came back 

My senses to their wonted track : 

I saw the dungeon walls and floor 

Close slowly round me as before ; 

I saw the glimmer of the sun 

Creeping as it before had done ; 

But through the crevice where it came 

That bird was perched, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree — 
A lovely bird with azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things. 

And seemed to say them all for me ! 
I never saw its like before — 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more. 
It seemed, like me, to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate ; 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again. 
And, cheering from my dungeon's brink. 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free. 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine ; 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine— 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from Paradise ; 
For — Heaven forgive that thought, the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile ! — 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 73 

I sometimes deemed that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal, well I knew ; 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone — 
Lone as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frow^n upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 



XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate — 
My keepers grew compassionate. 
I know not what had made them so — 
They were inured to sights of woe ; 
But so it was — my broken chain 
With links unfastened did remain ; 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
And up and down, and then athwr^rt, 
And tread it over every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun — 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed. 



74 FAVORITE POEMS 

My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. 

XII. 

I made a footino; in the wall : 
It was not therefrom to escape, 

For I had buried one and all 

Who loved me, in a human shape ; 

And the whole earth would henceforth be 

A wider prison unto me ; 

No child, no sire, no kin had I, 

No partner in my misery. 

I thought of this, and I was glad. 

For thought of them had made me mad ; 

But I was curious to ascend 

To my barred windows, and to bend 

Once more upon the mountains high 

The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 

I saw them — and they were the same ; 
They were not changed, like me, in frame : 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide, long lake below. 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channelled rock and broken bush ; 
1 saw the white-walled distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle. 
Which in my very face did smile— 
The only one in view ; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 75 

A small, green isle, it seemed no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor ; 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall. 
And they seemed joyous, each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast — 
Methought he never flew so fast 
As then to me he seemed to fly ; 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
x\nd I felt troubled, and would fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closing o'er one we sought to save ; 
And yet my glance, too much oppressed, 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

XIV. 

It might be months, or years, or days — 

I kept no count, I took no note — 
I had no hope my eyes to raise. 

And clear them of their dreary mote; 
At last came men to set me free, 

I asked not why, and recked not where ; 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fettered or fetterless to be ; 



76 FAVORITE POEMS 

I learned to love despair. 
And thus, when they appeared at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a sacred home. 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watched them in their sullen trade ; 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play — 
And why should I feel less than they? 
We were all inmates of one place. 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill ; yet, strange to tell ! 
In quiet we had learned to dwell. 
My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are : — even I 
Regained my freedom with a sigh. 



Lord Byron. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT 
BALAKLAVA. 

I. 
Half a league, half a league. 

Half a league onward, 
.All in the Valley of Death 
Rode the Six Hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
Charge for the guns !" he said : 



THE LIGHT BKIGADE. 77 

Id to the valley of Death 
Rode the Six Hundred. 



" Forward, the Light Brigade !" 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die : 
Into the Valley of Death 

Rode the Six Hundred. 

III. 
Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them. 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well ; 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of hell. 

Rode the Six Hundred. 

IV. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air. 
Sabring the gunners there. 
Charging an array, while 

All the world wondered. 
Plunged in the battery smoke. 
Right through the line they broke ; 



78 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke, 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not, 

Not the Six Hundred. 

V. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them. 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell. 
While horse and hero fell. 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of hell, 
All that was left of them. 

Left of Six Hundred. 

VI. 

When can their glory fade? 
the wild charge they made I 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Lio-ht Brio;ade, 

Noble Six Hundred. 

Alfred TeTinyson. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS EROM 
GHENT TO AIX. 

I SPRANG- to the stirrup, and Joris and he : 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; 



GOOD NEWS FKOM GHENT TO AIX. 79 

*^ Good speed !" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, 
" Speed !" echoed the wall to us galloping through. 
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 
And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace — 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; 
I turned to my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas a moonset at starting ; but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ; 
At Boom a great yellow star came out to see ; 
At Dtiffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be ; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half- 
chime — 
So Joris broke silence with ^' Yet there is time ! " 

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun. 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past ; 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze as some bluff river headland its spray ; 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its w^hite edge at me, his own master, askance ; 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, w^hich aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. 



80 FAVORITE POEMS. 

By Hasselt Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her ; 
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick 

wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering 

knees. 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh ; 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. 

And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight !" 

" How they'll greet us !" — and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim. 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer — 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or 

good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is friends flocking round. 

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ; 



IVRY. 81 

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news from 

Ghent. 

Robert Browning. 



IVRY. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! 

And glory to our sovereign liege. King Henry of Navarre ! 

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, 

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, pleas- 
ant land of France ! 

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the 
waters. 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy murmuring 
daughters ; 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ; 

For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy 
walls annoy. 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance 
of war ! 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. 

Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of 

day. 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers. 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish 

spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of 

our land ; 
6 



82 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his 
hand ; 

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's em- 
purpled flood. 

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his 
blood ; 

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of 
war. 

To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. 

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant 

crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern 

and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to 

wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout : God save our lord 

the King ! 
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may — 
For never I saw promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the 

ranks of war. 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 

Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, 
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring 

culverin. 
The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain. 
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 



IVRY. 88 

Charge for the golden lilies — upon them with the lance ! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in 
rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- 
white crest; 

And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a 
guiding star, 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours : Mayenne hath 

turned his rein ; 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the Flemish count is 

slain ; 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay 

gale; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and 

cloven mail. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our 

van, 
Remember Saint Bartholomew ! was passed from man to 

man. 
But out spake gentle Henry — " No Frenchman is my foe : 
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren 

go"- 
Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war. 
As our sovereign lord. King Henry, the soldier of Na- 
varre ? 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for 

France to-day ; 
And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; 



84 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'cn the cornet 

white — 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, 
The cornet w^hite with crosses black, the flag of false 

Lorraine. 
Up with it high ; unfurl it wide — that all the host may 

know 
How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought 

his church such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest 

point of war. 
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of 

Navarre. 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna; ho ! matrons of Lucerne — 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never 
shall return. 

Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles. 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear- 
men's souls. 

Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms 
be bright ; 

Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to- 
night ; 

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath 
raised the slave. 

And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of 
the brave. 

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; 

And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Xavarre ! 

Thomas Bahington Macaiday. 



DORA. 85 



DORA. 



With farmer Allan at the farm abode 

William and Dora. William was his son, 

And she his niece. He often looked at them, 

And often thought, " I'll make them man and wife." 

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, 

And yearned towards William ; but the youth, because 

He had been always with her in the house, 

Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan called his son, and said, " My son : 
I married late, but I would wish to see 
My grandchild on my knees before I die ; 
And I have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
To look to ; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter ; he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died 
In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora ; take her for your wife ; 
For I have wished this marriage, night and day, 
For many years." But William answered short : 
" I cannot marry Dora ; by my life, 
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said : 
" You will not, boy ! you dare to answer thus ! 
But in my time a father's word was law, 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't ; 
Consider, William : take a month to think, 



86 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And let me have an answer to my wish; 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, 
And never more darken my doors again !" 
But William answered madly ; bit his lips. 
And broke away. The more he looked iit her 
The less he liked her ; and his w^ays were harsh ; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before 
The month was out he left his father's house, 
And hired himself to work within the fields ; 
And half in love, half spite, he wooed and w^ed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 

Then, when the bells w^ere ringing, Allan called 
His niece and said : " My girl, I love you well ; 
But if you speak wdth him that was my son, 
Or change a word wdth her he calls his wife, 
My home is none of yours. My wall is law." 
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 
" It cannot be ; my uncle's mind will change !" 

And days went on, and there was born a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him ; 
And day by day he passed his father's gate. 
Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. 
But Dora stored w^hat little she could save. 
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know 
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest-time he died. 

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought 
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said : 
" I have obeyed my uncle until now, 
And I have sinned, for it was all through me 
This evil came on William at the first. 



DORA. 87 

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, 

And for your sake, the woman that he chose. 

And for this orphan, I am come to you. 

You know there has not been for these five years 

So full a harvest ; let me take the boy. 

And I will set him in my uncle's eye 

Among the wheat ; that when his heart is glad 

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy. 

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." 

And Dora took the child, and went her way 
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
That was unsown, where many poppies grew. 
Far off the farmer came into the field 
And spied her not ; for none of all his men 
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
And Dora would have risen and gone to him, 
But her heart failed her ; and the reapers reaped. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

But when the morrow came, she rose and took 
The child once more, and sat upon the mound ; 
And made a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat, 
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
Then when the farmer passed into the field 
He spied her, and he left his men at work. 
And came and said, " AVhere were you yesterday ? 
Whose child is that ? What are you doing here ?" 
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, 
And answered softly, " This is William's child !" 
" And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
Forbid you, Dora ?" Dora said again : 
"Do with me as you will, but take the child 



88 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And bless him, for the sake of him that's gone !" 

And Allan said, " I see it is a trick 

Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 

I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared 

To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy ; 

But go you hence, and never see me more.'' 

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud 
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell 
At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands. 
And the boy's cry came to her from the field. 
More and more distant. She bowled down her head, 
Eemembering the day when first she came. 
And all the things that had been. She bowed down 
And wept in secret ; and the reapers reaped. 
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. 

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise 
To God, that helped her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said, " My uncle took the boy ; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you ; 
He says that he will never see me more." 
Then answered Mary, " This shall never be, ' 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself; 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy. 
For he will teach him harshness, and to slight 
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go, 
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ; 
And I will hecr of him to take thee back ; 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one house. 



DORA. 89 

And work for William's child until he grows 
Of age to help us." 

So the women kissed 
Each other, and set out and reached the farm. 
The door was off the latch ; they peeped and saw 
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And clapped him on the hands and on the cheeks. 
Like one that loved him ; and the lad stretched out 
And babbled for the golden seal that hung 
From Allan's watch and sparkled by the fire. 
Then they came in ; but when the boy beheld 
His mother, he cried out to come to her ; 
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said : 

" O father ! — if you let me call you so — 
I never came a-begging for myself. 
Or William, or this child ; but now I come 
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well. 
O, Sir, when WiUiam died, he died at peace 
With all men ; for I asked him, and he said. 
He could not ever rne his marrying me. — 
I had been a patient wife ; but. Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus ; 
' God bless him !' he said, ' and may he never know 
The troubles I have gone through !' Then he turned 
His face and passed — unhappy that I am ! 
But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 
His father's memory ; and take Dora back. 
And let all this be as it was before." 

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 



90 FAVORITE POEMS. 

And all at once the old man burst in sobs : — 

''I have been to blame — to blame. I have killed my 

son ! 

I have killed him — but I loved him — my dear son 1 

May God forgive me ! — I have been to blame. 

Kiss me, my children !" 

Then they clung about 

The old man's neck, and kissed him many times. 

And all the man was broken with remorse ; 

And all his love came back a hundred-fold ; 

And for three hours lie sobbed o'er William's child, 

Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 

Within one house together ; and as years 

Went forward, Mary took another mate ; 

But Dora lived unmarried till her death. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



THE BEIDES OF ENDERBY ; OR, THE HIGH TIDE. 

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
The ringers ran by two, by three ; 

" Pull, if ye never pulled before ; 

Good ringers, pull your best," quotli he. 

" Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells ! 

Ply all your changes, all your swells, 
Play uppe ' The Brides of Enderby.' " 

Men say it was a stolen tyde — 

The Lord that sent it. He knows all ; 

But in myne ears doth still abide 
The messaixe that the bells let fall : 



THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY. 91 

And there was naught of strange, beside 
The flights of mews and peewits pied 
By millions crouched on the old sea wall. 

I sat and spun within the doore, 

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes ; 

The level sun, like ruddy ore, 
Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 

And dark against day's golden heath 

She moved where Lindis wandereth, 

My Sonne's faire wife, EHzabeth. 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha 1" calling, 
Ere the early dews were falling, 
Farre away I heard her song. 
" Cusha ! Cusha !" all along ; 
Where the reedy Lindis floweth, 

Floweth, floweth. 
From the meads where melick groweth, 
Faintly came her milking song. — 

" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha 1" calling, 
" For the dews will soone be fallino; ; 
Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot ; 
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow. 

Hollow, hollow ; 
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
From the clovers lift your head ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Llglitfoot, 



92 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Come iippe Jetty, rise and follow. 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

If it be long, aye, long ago, 

When I beginne to think howe long, 

Againe I hear the Lindis flow. 

Swift as an arrowe, sharp e and strong ; 

And all the aire it seemeth mee 

Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 

That ring the tune of Enderby. 

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, 
And not a shadowe mote be seene. 

Save where full fyve good miles away 

The steeple towered from out the greene ; 

And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 

Was heard in all the country side 

That Saturday at eventide. 

The swannerds where their sedges are 
Moved on in sunset's golden breath, 
The shepherd lads I heard afarre. 

And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
Came downe that kyndly message free, 
" The Brides of Mavis Enderby." 

Then some looked uppe into the sky, 
And all along vrhere Lindis flows 

To where the goodly vessels lie. 

And where the lordly steeple shows. 

They sayde, "And why should this thing be. 



THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY. 93 

What danger lowers by land or sea ? 
They ring the tune of Enderby ! 

" For evil news from Mablethorpe, 

Of pyrate galleys warping down ; 
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, 

They have not spared to wake the towne : 
But while the west bin red to see, 
And storms be none, and pyrates flee. 
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby V '' 

I looked without, and lo ! my sonne 

Came riding downe with might and main : 

He raised a shout as he drew on, 
Till all the welkin rang again, 

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my sonnets wife, Elizabeth.) 

"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe. 

The rising tide comes on apace, 
And boats adrift in yonder towne 

Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
He shook as one that looks on death : 
" God save you, mother !" straight he saith ; 
"Where is my wife, EHzabeth?" 

"Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away 
With her two bairns I marked her long ; 

And ere yon bells beganne to play. 
Afar I heard her milking song." 

He looked across the grassy sea. 



94: FAVORITE POEMS. 

To right, to left, '' Ho En derby 1" 
They rang " The Brides of Enderby !" 

With that he cried and beat his breast ; 

For lo ! along the river's bed 
A mighty eygre reared his crest, 

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
It swept with thunderous noises loud ; 
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, 
Or like a demon in a shroud. 

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, 

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; 
Then madly at the eygre' s breast 

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout — 
Then beaten foam flew round about — 
Then all the mighty floods were out. 

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, 
The heart had hardly time to beat, 

Before a shallow seething wave 

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : 

The feet had hardly time to flee 

Before it brake against the knee, 

And all the world was in the sea. 

Upon the roofe we sate that night, 
The noise of bells went sweeping by : 

I marked the lofty beacon light 

Stream from the church tower, red and high- 

A lurid mark and dread to see ; 



THE BRIDES OF ENDERBY. 95 

And awsome bells they were to mee, 
That in the dark rang " Enderby." 

They rang the sailor lads to guide 

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 

And I — my sonne was at my side, 
And yet the rnddy beacon glowed : 

And yet he moaned beneath his breatb, 

" O come in life, or come in death ! 

O lost ! my love, EHzabeth." 

And didst thou visit him no more ? 

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ; 
The waters laid thee at his doore. 

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, 
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 

To manye more than myne and me : 

But each will mourn his own (she saith). 

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 

Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 

I shall never hear her more 
By the reedy Lindis shore, 
"Cusha, Cusha, Cusha !" calling, 
Ere the early dews be falling ; 
I shall never hear her song, 
"Cusha, Cusha!" all along, 



96 FAVORITE POEMS. 

Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 

Goeth, floweth; 
From the meads where meUck groweth, 
When the water, winding down, 
Onward floweth to the town. 

I shall never see her more 

Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 

Shiver, quiver ; 
Stand beside the sobbing river, 
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling. 
To the sandy lonesome shore ; 
I shall never hear her calling, 
" Leave your meadow grasses mellow. 

Mellow, mellow ; 
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot ; 
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow ; 

Hollow, hollow ; — 

Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow ; 

Lightfoot, Whitefoot, 
From the clovers hft your head ; 
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
Jetty, to the milking shed." 

Jean Ingelow. 

THE END . 



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